Body Horror
by Hugo V
Summary: Angelus, while locked in his cage, takes a different approach to grabbing Gunn's attention. *spoilers for S4*


**Author's Note: Some things you just can't get out of your head until they're down on paper. This was one of those things. **

**I do not own the show Angel, nor any of it's affiliates.**

**Discretion is Advised**

Their eyes are locked on one another, never daring to break away. Gunn and Angelus, the latter of which is grinning broadly behind the bars of his basement cell in the Hyperion Hotel. Along the floor is a red line that divides safety from a neck-snapping bad time.

He knows this, they both do. Gunn, in all of his pride, still refuses to bite back against his former boss' jeers; it is only when he mentions Winnifred and, subsequently, Wesley, that the words crawl painfully within him.

"How is the girl?" Angelus asks, his tone mocking. "Still fantasizing over Sir Wyndham-Pryce?"

Gunn stops himself from answering, knowing that doing so would only serve his growing frustration. Instead, he glares. His shift's end in twenty minutes is the only thing stopping him from dusting the bastard then and there.

"Y'know, back in my day - and I'm a progressive guy, just t'let ya' know - slaves who rolled in the hay with white girls were-" He tugs at an invisible noose above his head, sticking his tongue out morbidly.

Unimpressed, Gunn preoccupies his mind with other things: getting a new axe, or fixing his old one, very possibly irreparable after the Big Bad bent it with a single hand.

"-hanged. What do you dream about?"

Ignoring Angelus' questioning, he continues to think. 'Axes,' Gunn considers, 'have good torque but aren't so convenient in close quarters. Neither are broadswords so much.'

"Well now, I apologize for not being able to entertain my guest."

This snaps Charles back to reality long enough for Angelus to get several more words out. "Here, I'm sure you'll like this one. Picked it up back in my Europe days." Having caught his "guest's" attention, the vampire begins.

Angelus' brow distorts into a crooked 'V' shape above his nose, on either side of which are two feral, yellow eyes. What were previously normal canines draw sharply into fangs. Having seen this a hundred times before, Gunn laughs. "Scary."

What he didn't expect came next. Distending his lower jaw and extending his upper, Angelus places his front teeth down on his own chin as low as possible. Pulling upwards and back, two red pressure lines appear within seconds upon the spot he softly scraped.

Gunn feels he should turn away as if watching a horror movie, but is too reluctant to give in; he can tell the scary part is just about to happen.

Angelus repeats the action, darkening the twin trails up to his bottom lip. "Europe, huh?" Gunn smirks in an attempt to trick himself into confidence, but the captor is no longer smiling that unsettling smile; the only constant now shattered.

Once again, the vampire firmly presses his fangs downwards, inwards, then up again, this time bringing blood to the surface. It pools under his chin and sprinkles light drops on the hard concrete floor.

Nausea takes hold of Gunn, but he stomachs the discomfort for no other reason than to best Angelus at his own game, however macabre.

Another slow teeth scrape deepens the self-inflicted cuts, welling more blood that gathers into a steady drip-drip-dripping. Any pain Charles imagines Angelus must be enduring is incomprehensible as the pattern continues: stretch, sink, rip. The vampire keeps his hands politely tucked at his sides, never once reaching up to wipe away the rivulets now trailing down his neck.

Gunn takes two steps to the left but the vampire's unblinking stare follows, all the while keeping pace; what had started as tame laceration deteriorates into full-fledged mutilation. Every five seconds brings with it another tug of the flesh - meticulously similar to the last in placement.

Half a minute passes this way until Charles is positive that Angelus will cave before the underwhelming agony, but no such luck. Another minute elapses before he stops, his chin's skin hanging forward in a neat rectangle. Revealed is a row of incisors whose roots can plainly be seen within a threading of crimson muscle.

Charles has lost the battle and internally admits it, close to running to the nearest trashcan for a much needed heave. Angelus, shockingly, continues by leaning down to rip a long, string-like strip of meat from each of his bare forearms with his mouth, leaving the close-end attached and pulling the far-end towards himself to shape two grotesque 'C's.

The grin returns, leaving Angelus to proudly exclaim, "I call it, 'The Puppet!'"

Unable to view his friend distorted in such a way, Gunn falls to his knees and throws up, chest heaving and knees weak. Tears are choked back as he shakes his buzzing head, trembling at the vampire's laugh of triumph.

"Once again, what _do _you dream about?"

**Thanks for reading. ;)**


End file.
